


Aftershocks

by bifactional_disaster



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft: Shadowlands - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Older Woman/Younger Man, Rare Pair, World of Warcraft: Shadowlands, World of Warcraft: Shadowlands Spoilers, no i don't care if you don't like it, spot the taylor swift reference, sylvanduin, trust me it's not the most problematic thing i've shipped, yes i ship that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:02:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29790282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bifactional_disaster/pseuds/bifactional_disaster
Summary: Set immediately post-Kingsmourne cinematic. Hastily written because it has been gnawing on my brain like Tred’ova. No betas, we die like warriors.If you came here from tumblr for the adult version, go ahead and skip to chapter 2. Everyone else, chapters 1 and 2 are the same story, but is a platonic(ish) vs. pornish ending.It was a one shot and I couldn't decide which side to shoot, so I went with both. I can't help it.
Relationships: Sylvanas Windrunner/Anduin Wrynn
Comments: 12
Kudos: 44





	1. Aftershocks

She watches his face; she can see the slightest twitch at the corner of his eye as he fights exhaustively to surface, but it’s of no use. The Jailer extracts the key from the Kingsmourne and Sylvanas is tasked with “putting away” the vessel until it is ready to be used again. Her head nods once, curtly, and her face remains unchanged as she takes over Anduin’s mind with her own banshee magic. Electric blue fades and shifts to a neon violet before she walks him from the balcony. He’s steered along several of the twisting corridors, bypassing his own prison and is taken to another. 

The lair of the Dark Lady, inasmuch as she has laid claim to in this unearthly realm, is modestly sized. Unsurprisingly, many of her personal effects are twisted and gruesome. Skulls from every race known to Azeroth and the outer realms hang on the wall in a morbid gallery. Of the items that aren’t nightmare inducing, none of them look particularly sentimental or personal, likely left on Azeroth for safe keeping. The aesthetic here is carefully and intentionally curated.

She locks the door and proceeds to remove the sword and then unclamp the heavy armor while he wobbles in place and she whispers the necessary magic to keep him under her spell. Beneath the heavily spiked pauldrons and chest plate, Anduin is still a large man, larger than she would have expected from the man she’d goaded as the ‘boy king’ for the last several years, but his presence feels far smaller. Deft hands remove the final pieces of his armor as she lets the echo of her voice trail off, allowing him to come back to himself when he is clad only in tight black pants designed to keep the leather from chafing, and a loose black shirt that served the same purpose.

As the ocean blue of his eyes returns, he gasps in a panic, and the first thing he sees is her. Anger, white hot, burning righteous fury. If he’d had enough strength to call down the light, he would have smote her where she stood. Instead, he lunges at her, and it becomes apparent why she’s taken the time to relieve him of his weapons and armaments. It’s the exact reaction she expects, and while she is confident he’ll never catch up to her to land a punch, she’s not interested in taking chances after pride had won her a new scar at the hands of Saurfang. Sylvanas dodges his strikes, and sidesteps his advances for a few tense moments before his anger turns to something he can catch.

Her face remains passive as he smashes each of the skulls that hung on the wall, demanding answers after each is splintered in a thousand shards, practically reciting everything she’d done in his memory. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have answers to give him that will satisfy the depth of the ache he feels. Sylvanas begins the process of removing her own armor while he rants and destroys her room. “You know, I will just get more to replace them, and if they aren’t available readily, I can create them myself,” she warns, but doesn’t expect it to stop the destruction.

“STOP. UNDRESSING,” he booms at her, in equal parts anger and exasperation. He’s never seen her so...undergeared. It feels too private, and entirely too intimate for the emotions swirling through him. He wins only a narrowing of her eyes as she unfastens the heavy leather strap that holds the guards for her hips and thighs. He’s nearly hysterical; it’s hard the first time, and he doesn’t have the boon of being dead to numb his emotions. No, the Jailer needs him as a living mortal within the Shadowlands. 

“Why?” he demands, as if he’s going to get a better answer than he has up until now.

Anduin rounds on her again and his face is flushed and streaked with tears.  _ Careful, they’ll burn themselves onto your face _ , she can feel the chiding remark on her tongue, but for once she swallows it. She has no defense against his litany of her crimes. “Answer me, Sylvanas!”

His gaze is at once accusatory and pleading and it cuts her like the mourneblade all over again. Her memory hasn’t faded--she can feel his hurt and betrayal because she owns the same ones. Time hasn’t healed those wounds, it has only grown them into the anger and hatred she wears like armor around herself. It unpleasantly occurs to her that while he has been but a brief annoyance in her own long life, she has been a constant source of misery in his own. From the time he was young, so much has been taken. His peace, his father, his home, and now his free will; and she’s played a part in so many of those moments. Suddenly she’s finding it uncomfortable to maintain eye contact, and she lets her gaze drop.

She’s already got one foot braced and turns around in time to catch the charging Anduin solidly against her front. Sylvanas grunts when her back hits the wall, fangs bared, but she doesn’t strike back. This isn’t a man who wants more violence. She wraps her arms around him instead. “Shhh,” she hisses against his ear, holding him tightly against her while he flails to get free. He pushes at her, tries to pull away, but the attempts are half-hearted at best.

Eventually, he stops fighting and his arms go limp at his sides. Sylvanas feels him surrender, and her hold becomes less severe. She thinks back to the days her Little Moon would fling herself into Sylvanas’s arms and cry over whatever latest injustice had besieged her heart. Her memory marked them as petty endeavors compared to the broken boy she held now, but the muscle memory, at least, was helpful. His weight pressed against her made it easy to balance herself as she slid down the wall, pulling him down as well. He gave no fight, just crumbled to the ground with her, and his arms went around her waist. For a moment, she freezes and looks down at the mess of blonde hair. His head rests against her chest, which does not rise or fall, nor offer the comfort of a steady breath or heartbeat. She settles in once again, this time keeping an arm around his back while the other tugs loose the tie from his hair so she can thread her fingers through it. No words are offered--any she could say felt hollow, and certainly untrue.

Until the Maw, Sylvanas was the coldest place he’d ever known, but here, she feels like a respite--the smallest and most fragile of fires in a night that promised death from the howling wind. There isn’t much hope in it, but he clings to it nonetheless. He doesn’t expect to find himself on the floor of her room, wrapped up in the mysterious and infuriating elf, but the moment she offered him shelter instead of slaughter, he fell apart. Her fingers twine through his hair and it’s a small comfort. His eyes still burn, and so does his throat, but eventually he is able to pull himself together, in no small part due to the solid presence he rested against. He scrubs his eyes with the heel of his hand and she pauses her ministrations to allow him to do such. Her hand hovers for a moment before falling to the side when she realizes he won’t be putting his head back down.

He looks at her in earnest then. He’s never seen her out of her martial attire; she remains only in leather pants and a soft black under shirt. Sylvanas’s hair spills over her shoulders, flat from hiding beneath a hood. He’s always found her hauntingly beautiful, but nothing compared to her stripped of her war vestments and staring at him like...It wasn’t exactly compassion he saw in her eyes so much as understanding. Anduin had gained a new perspective as well--hers. 

The fact that she chose to bring him here and comfort him rather than locking him back inside his circular prison speaks volumes, but that was never enough for him, because Sylvanas is never what she seems. “Why have you brought me here?” he asks, since it certainly isn’t to apologize. She hasn’t expressed remorse, or regret.

Sylvanas lets her head drop to the side so that she’s looking at him without her head leaving the support of the wall. “Because I can not give you peace, Young Wrynn, but I can at least make sure you sleep comfortably, and dreamlessly, if you so desire,” she drawls. Afterall, she has no use for her bed, she doesn’t require sleep and when she does sleep, it’s more out of habit or boredom. As she speaks, he feels her brace her feet and she lifts both of them, though this time with his help. She leads him to the bed and eases him down as though he is a broken thing.

She sees him start to speak again, and she knows the question before it comes out. She stops it by pressing two cold fingers against his lips. “Shh, there is nothing to be done about it,” she tells him matter of factly. “Not yet. Be patient, little lion. The threads of fate are frayed and unravelling. Soon we will weave our own.” Sylvanas doesn’t remove her fingers from his lips, but rests her forehead against his with her eyes closed. “And no one will ever control us again,” she says, trying to convince him as much as she is trying to convince herself. Her fingertips and head lift at the same time and she leans forward to press a kiss on his brow, imbuing him with an irresistible urge to sleep. “Rest now,” she murmurs, settling him in the throng of pillows as he slowly blinks, trying and failing to stay awake. Her hand smooths over his forehead once more, pushing slightly faded gold locks out of his face in a tender gesture he won’t remember by the time he wakes. “It won’t get any easier from here.”


	2. Aftershocks - Explicit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Baby, this is what you came for"

She watches his face; she can see the slightest twitch at the corner of his eye as he fights exhaustively to surface, but it’s of no use. The Jailer extracts the key from the Kingsmourne and Sylvanas is tasked with “putting away” the vessel until it is ready to be used again. Her head nods once, curtly, and her face remains unchanged as she takes over Anduin’s mind with her own banshee magic. Electric blue fades and shifts to a neon violet before she walks him from the balcony. He’s steered along several of the twisting corridors, bypassing his own prison and is taken to another. 

The lair of the Dark Lady, inasmuch as she has laid claim to in this unearthly realm, is modestly sized. Unsurprisingly, many of her personal effects are twisted and gruesome. Skulls from every race known to Azeroth and the outer realms hang on the wall in a morbid gallery. Of the items that aren’t nightmare inducing, none of them look particularly sentimental or personal, likely left on Azeroth for safe keeping. The aesthetic here is carefully and intentionally curated.

She locks the door and proceeds to remove the sword and then unclamp the heavy armor while he wobbles in place and she whispers the necessary magic to keep him under her spell. Beneath the heavily spiked pauldrons and chest plate, Anduin is still a large man, larger than she would have expected from the man she’d goaded as the ‘boy king’ for the last several years, but his presence feels far smaller. Deft hands remove the final pieces of his armor as she lets the echo of her voice trail off, allowing him to come back to himself when he is clad only in tight black pants designed to keep the leather from chafing, and a loose black shirt that served the same purpose.

As the ocean blue of his eyes returns, he gasps in a panic, and the first thing he sees is her. Anger, white hot, burning righteous fury. If he’d had enough strength to call down the light, he would have smote her where she stood. Instead, he lunges at her, and it becomes apparent why she’s taken the time to relieve him of his weapons and armaments. It’s the exact reaction she expects, and while she is confident he’ll never catch up to her to land a punch, she’s not interested in taking chances after pride had won her a new scar at the hands of Saurfang. Sylvanas dodges his strikes, and sidesteps his advances for a few tense moments before his anger turns to something he can catch.

Her face remains passive as he smashes each of the skulls that hung on the wall, demanding answers after each is splintered in a thousand shards, practically reciting everything she’d done in his memory. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have answers to give him that will satisfy the depth of the ache he feels. Sylvanas begins the process of removing her own armor while he rants and destroys her room. “You know, I will just get more to replace them, and if they aren’t available readily, I can create them myself,” she warns, but doesn’t expect it to stop the destruction.

“STOP. UNDRESSING,” he booms at her, in equal parts anger and exasperation. He’s never seen her so...undergeared. It feels too private, and entirely too intimate for the emotions swirling through him. He wins only a narrowing of her eyes as she unfastens the heavy leather strap that holds the guards for her hips and thighs. He’s nearly hysterical; it’s hard the first time, and he doesn’t have the boon of being dead to numb his emotions. No, the Jailer needs him as a living mortal within the Shadowlands. 

“Why?” he demands, as if he’s going to get a better answer than he has up until now.

Anduin rounds on her again and his face is flushed and streaked with tears. _Careful, they’ll burn themselves onto your face_ , she can feel the chiding remark on her tongue, but for once she swallows it. She has no defense against his litany of her crimes. “Answer me, Sylvanas!”

His gaze is at once accusatory and pleading and it cuts her like the mourneblade all over again. Her memory hasn’t faded--she can feel his hurt and betrayal because she owns the same ones. Time hasn’t healed those wounds, it has only grown them into the anger and hatred she wears like armor around herself. It unpleasantly occurs to her that while he has been but a brief annoyance in her own long life, she has been a constant source of misery in his own. From the time he was young, so much has been taken. His peace, his father, his home, and now his free will; and she’s played a part in so many of those moments. Suddenly she’s finding it uncomfortable to maintain eye contact, and she lets her gaze drop.

She’s already got one foot braced and turns around in time to catch the charging Anduin solidly against her front. Sylvanas grunts when her back hits the wall, fangs bared, but she doesn’t strike back. This isn’t a man who wants more violence. She wraps her arms around him instead. “Shhh,” she hisses against his ear, holding him tightly against her while he flails to get free. He pushes at her, tries to pull away, but the attempts are half-hearted at best.

Eventually, he stops fighting and his arms go limp at his sides. Sylvanas feels him surrender, and her hold becomes less severe. She thinks back to the days her Little Moon would fling herself into Sylvanas’s arms and cry over whatever latest injustice had besieged her heart. Her memory marked them as petty endeavors compared to the broken boy she held now, but the muscle memory, at least, was helpful. His weight pressed against her made it easy to balance herself as she slid down the wall, pulling him down as well. He gave no fight, just crumbled to the ground with her, and his arms went around her waist. For a moment, she freezes and looks down at the mess of blonde hair. His head rests against her chest, which does not rise or fall, nor offer the comfort of a steady breath or heartbeat. She settles in once again, this time keeping an arm around his back while the other tugs loose the tie from his hair so she can thread her fingers through it. No words are offered--any she could say felt hollow, and certainly untrue.

Until the Maw, Sylvanas was the coldest place he’d ever known, but here, she feels like a respite--the smallest and most fragile of fires in a night that promised death from the howling wind. There isn’t much hope in it, but he clings to it nonetheless. He doesn’t expect to find himself on the floor of her room, wrapped up in the mysterious and infuriating elf, but the moment she offered him shelter instead of slaughter, he fell apart. Her fingers twine through his hair and it’s a small comfort. His eyes still burn, and so does his throat, but eventually he is able to pull himself together, in no small part due to the solid presence he rested against. He scrubs his eyes with the heel of his hand and she pauses her ministrations to allow him to do such. Her hand hovers for a moment before falling to the side when she realizes he won’t be putting his head back down.

He looks at her in earnest then. He’s never seen her out of her martial attire; she remains only in leather pants and a soft black under shirt. Sylvanas’s hair spills over her shoulders, flat from hiding beneath a hood. He’s always found her hauntingly beautiful, but nothing compared to her stripped of her war vestments and staring at him like...It wasn’t exactly compassion he saw in her eyes so much as understanding. Anduin had gained a new perspective as well--hers. 

The fact that she chose to bring him here and comfort him rather than locking him back inside his circular prison speaks volumes, but that was never enough for him, because Sylvanas is never what she seems. “Why have you brought me here?” he asks, since it certainly isn’t to apologize. She hasn’t expressed remorse, or regret.

Sylvanas lets her head drop to the side so that she’s looking at him without her head leaving the support of the wall. “Because I can not give you peace, Young Wrynn, but I can at least make sure you sleep comfortably, and dreamlessly, if you so desire,” she drawls. Afterall, she has no use for her bed, she doesn’t require sleep and when she does sleep, it’s more out of habit or boredom. As she speaks, he feels her brace her feet and she lifts both of them, though this time with his help. She leads him to the bed and eases him down as though he is a broken thing.

She’s surprised when his hand grips her wrist and gives enough of a tug that she tumbles down as well, straddling him. His face is buried again against her collar bone, and while his other arm isn’t explicitly looped around her, his hand is planted against the mattress behind her, trapping her hip and adjoining leg in place. He’s not done with her it seems, and she sees an opportunity. Men are so easily led.

Her fingers comb through his hair again--once, twice, and on the third time her grip tightens into a fist and pulls his head back so that his face turns to look up at her. “When I offered to help you sleep, I meant with magic,” she says, smirking just enough that the tip of elven fangs flash on one side. Still, even as she speaks, she makes no move to put space in between them, instead pressing closer against him. He’s so warm and alive. His pulse flutters like an erratic butterfly and she can feel it in every part of him.

“I have had enough mind tricks and control,” he replies. His blue eyes are tired, but the anger still burns. It’s an easy transition from anger into lust. Anger is so mutable, it just needs a little redirection, and Sylvanas is a master tactician. He shudders as she presses close, considering whether or not he’s biting off more than he can chew, and more specifically, if he even cares that he is. He feels exposed with her holding his head back, leaving his neck open and his gaze flickers to her mouth. She seems to follow his train of thought because in the next moment he’s discovering that her teeth are as sharp as they look.

Sylvanas nips hard enough to leave his skin red, but not enough to bruise as she considers his reply. “Mm, so you had something else in mind to help you sleep?” she asks. His body answers before he does and the banshee queen grinds her hips down against him, dragging a groan out of his throat. _Not so little lion_ , she muses and is pleased with her discovery. When he doesn’t respond verbally, she straightens up so she can look down at him again. His pupils are blown and she knows she’s made the transition between the warring emotions. Victory is hers and she intends to enjoy it.

“Undress me,” is her next command. Most of the work was done for him as she’d shed her armor, but he wastes no time in pulling off the shirt and dropping it to the floor. He’s a little more hesitant when he moves to unlace the leather wraps that holds her breasts in place. She lets him explore. The rough edges of his fingertips graze the skin that’s exposed, tentative about exposing more. The look of awe on his face brings her a new awareness. “You’ve never lain with a woman, little lion?” she asks, her tone absolutely predatory and delighted. 

His cheeks finally show some color, and then all at once his whole face is red. He hadn’t fully expected to get away with it, he’d just hoped that Sylvanas would be the one who took control since that was her usual modus operandi and guided the scenario, and his lack of experience wouldn’t be glaringly obvious. “I have not,” he confesses. His pulse quickens and he feels trapped, but deliciously so. She seems pleased with her new revelation, and he is happy to play the part if it gets him what he wants--and right now, he wants her. It’s not his best decision, but none of his others have yielded more enticing results. Anduin holds her gaze for a moment longer before returning to the task of removing the rest of her clothing.

He unfastens buckles and unwraps the layers of binding until he’s liberated her fully from the waist up. His hand moves up to run from the dip in her throat down her sternum, pausing near where he can feel the dark energy that consumed his mind hours ago. He replaces his hand with his mouth, kissing directly over the point where the runeblade had once ripped out her soul. He feels her stiffen and he knows he’s struck a nerve, caught her off guard just for a split second. It’s the advantage he needs to turn the tables and flip them over so that she’s pinned beneath him. Her hair creates a silvery halo around surprised features and wide ruby eyes.

Sylvanas wasn't expecting him to flip her over, but she allows it as soon as she feels the momentum start to shift. His golden waves frame the sharp lines of his face and she’s struck by how beautiful he is. The little cub had filled out into a lion, mane and all. She assists him by lifting her hips at the right time for him to finish divesting her of her leather leggings. She can’t remember the last time she allowed someone to see her naked, but she is confident enough that her body remains a sight to behold. Even with the cold pallor of death upon it, leaving the once tanned planes of her hips and stomach a purple-gray expanse, the young king seemed to find it no less inviting.

His kisses burn like brands as he memorizes the shape of her with his mouth, losing himself in her and the moment. Nothing exists outside of this place. Not the Maw, with its extreme temperatures and constant misery; not Azeroth, with its unending faction wars; not Stormwind, full of hypocritical courtiers and advisors who wanted to control his life as much as the Jailer did. Nothing but her and the way she jumps when he bites her hip.

“Mine are much sharper,” she warns, but it doesn’t sound threatening. His eagerness though runs the risk of colliding with the physiological hurdles of being undead, so Sylvanas cuts him off at the pass. With slight effort and great displeasure, she disengages from him by sliding down beneath his chest and taking the space to turn her body and dislodge him with her hip so she slips away while he falls flat on the bed. 

He looks so disappointed she doesn’t even make him ask for an explanation because it seems too cruel. “You’re still dressed, Wrynn,” she supplies while she moves to grab a corked bottle off a shelf he thankfully hadn’t ransacked. The relief she watches pass over his face amuses her as he realizes she isn’t putting an end to the still-snowballing series of events. “You should fix that before I get back,” she gives her next command as a means to keep him busy and to buy herself a little time.

It takes her a little longer to find the other item she’s searching for. A small ornately carved clam-shell is unearthed from the third satchel she rifles through and is brought with her. Anduin proves to be much more cooperative in the bedroom than he was out of it, and as instructed was completely naked as she walks over to where he’s sprawled on her bed. He looks a little too comfortable, or perhaps it’s just that she enjoys the view more than she should and it’s easier to blame him for it. 

Sylvanas pauses and makes a thorough appraisal of his body--well toned, perfect, unil she got to the leg that had been crushed beneath the divine bell. It’s a mess of scars, she’s surprised even now that they were able to save his leg. If he were undead, of course, they could have just replaced it. “I must admit, your majesty,” she purrs before she uses her teeth to pull the cork out of the heady elven wine, “had I known this was the way to get you to negotiate, I would have bedded you already.” She drinks deeply from the bottle of wine, subtly swishing it in her mouth and throat to make up for the lack of saliva.

She hears the sheets rustle, but she isn’t expecting to feel him suddenly pressed up against her back or feel his large palm spreading across her abdomen. His other hand glides down her arm with the intention of taking the bottle from her but she pulls it away. “You’re not the drinker your father was. Moderation,” she says and then takes another long pull from the bottle and turns her head to join their mouths. Anduin drinks her in with the wine. The hand around her waist tightens, holding her cold body against his own. The cold press of soft curves is a relief against his overheated skin.

Kissing her is intoxicating, but she’s given him a very convenient excuse in saying the wine was strong, so he can alleviate his guilt that way of wanting her so desperately. The roaming hand finds purchase in her hair, still silky, even drained of color. Somehow that seems more intimate than kissing her and he pulls away to look at her. Without boots, he’s slightly taller than she is, and twice as broad. It’s the first time she’s felt vulnerable, truly, since her sister had told her goodbye in a letter. He senses it instantly and kisses her again without the wine as a barrier between them. He kisses her until he has to take a breath, which isn’t long enough for her to feel sated, but he moves his mouth to her neck and shoulder as a distraction so he can steal deep breaths in through his nose and blow out the warm damp air against her chilly skin. Sylvanas feels blindly for a table to deposit the wine and free up a hand. Sharp nails rake up the side of his outer thigh before they grabbed hold of his muscular ass and pulled him to rut against her.

His need is apparent, and not just in the literal sense of the painfully erect cock trapped between his stomach and her lower back. He had divested himself of his reserve when he removed his clothing because once-timid hands cupped her breasts and kept her pulled back against him so his view down her body is unhindered. He notices the trinket in her other hand and stops attacking her neck and shoulder to ask about it. Anduin pins his chin against her shoulder so she can’t turn her head and distract him again--not that she’d need her mouth to do it. “What’s that?” he asks as his fingertips trail in a slow circle around her navel. 

Sylvanas turns her hand over and opens her fingers to reveal the case. “The forsaken aren’t alive in the same sense as mortals. We don’t sleep, need food, or produce our own bodily fluids. We also don’t feel...the same way, but the proclivity for...companionship doesn’t go away. We needed a solution.” She uses a fingernail to open the case and expose the balm inside. It was as strong as the wine, fruity and vaguely earthy. “It makes things fit together better, and temporarily restores some of the sensation lost to undeath,” she explains. It’s not that she sounds uncomfortable about it, but she’s never had to explain undead sex mechanics to a mortal. 

He watches as her free hand comes to swirl across the top of the pale balm, but he grabs her wrist before she can apply it and instead pulls her hand up to him and takes her fingers into his mouth. He sucks them slowly one at a time and then both in a way that makes her question just how much that Black Dragon had taught him. “Allow me, my lady,” he speaks low against her ear and he swears he can feel her shiver when he takes the carved vessel from her other hand. If she still had to breathe, she would have been holding her breath as she watched him relieve her of the balm and start using it. First between his thumb and forefinger, rolling each of her nipples slightly. They harden instantly and he appreciates just how fast the salve works. His own mouth is tingling and he isn’t sure he needs to feel _more_ with his lips, but he welcomes it anyway. Finally though he digs into the liniment enough that he is able to spread it across his first two fingers. 

He closes the container and tosses it onto the bed in case it's needed again, and uses his freed hand to hold her back against him again, palm splayed wide just below her collarbone so that she can’t buckle forward. She watches as the heel of his palm glides over her hip and then his fingers disappear beneath the soft white curls. He’s started another bold exploration and her knees threaten the ultimate betrayal. Sylvanas shifts her posture to both give him more room and so that she can lock her knees. Any hope she has of thinking herself through it and maintaining her perfect control is dashed as soon as his lips seek hers again in the same moment that he plunges two fingers inside of her. She cries out and he catches her mouth immediately, swallowing the sound. His tongue invades her mouth and moments later she is alight with a new sensation she wasn’t expecting. 

In a bid to regain control, she bites down and punctures the inside of his lip. The metallic tang of blood mingles with the sweetness of the balm on her tongue, and she isn’t surprised when he pulls back. His lower lip is swollen and blood forms in a pool at the corner of his mouth. His tongue licks it away and he fixes her with a stern look that has an interesting effect on regions further south. “You’ve drawn first blood,” he growls, and before she can respond she’s forced to catch herself as he uses his weight to push her onto the bed and trap her beneath him. “We’ll see who gets the next first,” his voice holds a dark promise that feels like a physical weight on her. Suddenly she can’t remember if he’s fully opposed to shadow magic. He should be, but she refuses to accept that he’s just having that effect on her.

It’s not until she feels his arm pinning the back of her shoulders down that she realizes exactly what he means. She could break the hold, but she wants to see where it goes, and she’s not disappointed when his fingers once again start stroking in and out of her. He places wet kisses along her spine, leaving tingling marks everywhere he places his lips and she finds herself reeling with her body feeling entirely more alive than she’s accustomed to. He pauses long enough to wet a third finger to slide inside her and he hears the pop of fabric knowing she’d bitten into the blanket rather than give him the satisfaction of hearing her moan. But she will, he’s determined. Every third stroke he stops to circle around her clit thrice before his fingers disappear inside her again up to his third knuckle. 

She tries not to give in, it’s just been so long and so lonesome. Her body welcomes his touch like a traitorous thing and before she can set herself resolute in not allowing him the victory, she’s coming unraveled. The tight walls Anduin continues to assault grow increasingly constricted and then the tension snaps, leaving him in awe again of the way her cunt rhythmically clenches and flutters around his fingers and his banshee wails against the thick cover over the bed. It’s no longer so neatly made as she’s wrenched the blankets in her grasp beneath his ministrations. 

His cock throbs painfully, reminding him that his discipline has its limits. He eases his hold on her and helps turn her over. It’s hard to read the expression blazing in scarlet eyes. “Sylvanas…” he begins, but the words die on his lips as he’s pulled down roughly on top of her. He isn’t prepared for the intensity she kisses him with, unaccommodating to his need for oxygen. Anduin steals gasps of air where he can but lets himself get swept up in her feral need for more. More of his skin against her own, more of his mouth on hers--he’s never been centered beneath that kind of attention, at least not in a way that he could satisfy. But here, he was enough and he gave her everything. 

When her legs wrap around him, pulling him so that the head of his cock brushes against her slick opening, he growls and lifts her with a hand beneath her lower back and the other behind her shoulders. Sylvanas is deposited roughly against the solid stone wall at the head of the bed, which is covered with pelts of questionable origin, and with a single thrust the high king is buried inside of her. Anduin and Sylvanas both moan in appreciation of just how well they fit together. He roots his head against the side of her neck and stays there, unmoving and counting his breathing slowly in spite of her wriggling in an effort to get him to move. “Anduin!” hearing his first name fall from her lips in such a way made his head swim, and he decided he would have to chalk it up to inexperience if he couldn’t last long enough.

He finally starts moving at a frenetic pace in spite of her legs squeezing around him to keep him from withdrawing too far. As he goes he finds that grip loosens and he’s able to gain more momentum before slamming back into her jarringly. Dark nails create angry red rows across his back and shoulders as she claws at him. She doesn’t miss the stutter in his rhythm and lets her knees fall outward to open herself up to him further. Sylvanas had forgotten what it felt like to be wanted--no, _craved_ \--instead of feared or respected, and as her named enemy spills his seed into her barren womb, she lets herself be swept away in a second orgasm that dazzles behind her eyelids even more than the first.

She listens to his breathing as it calms down from a frantic panting into a more normal rhythm, and she lets him lead when he pulls her away from the wall and stretches out his bad leg. The other folds beneath him and he lies back on the bed, keeping her close against his chest. Once prone, her hair falls over his face and there’s a ghost of a smile on her lips when he takes the time to arrange it so that it’s draped over his shoulder rather than across his nose. Beneath her breasts, she can feel his heart continuing to leap and push his warmth into her. Her eyes close and they lie there for so long that the hand that had been stroking slowly down her spine has stilled low on her back, and his breathing has passed into a light snore every few breaths.

  
It’s a dangerous game she’s playing. Seeing the Jailer control Anduin sparked something territorial in her. She didn’t realize just how attached she’d become, in spite of their faction war. The boy king was _her_ enemy, _her_ little lion. And Sylvanas did not like to share what was hers. Something would have to be done about it, but not at this moment. Her mind reels with plans and possibilities until she lets the slow rock of his breathing coax her into sleep as well.

**Author's Note:**

> I have something much longer planned out but I haven't started writing it, I'm hoping that throwing this out into the world will be the kick in the ass I need to spend the time...in between quests, world bosses, dungeons, and the occasional screaming by the seat of my holy priest pants mythic.


End file.
